


Knave

by melo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen, Impersonation, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek should never have indulged his liege's paranoia or Chamberlain Deaton's insanity. Now he has to deal with training an impersonator to act as the king's secret double, and professional entertainer or not, Stiles is anything but graceful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knave

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Masquerade (2012)

Derek stands perfectly still in imitation of the marble pillars which line the throne room, unimpressed by the intricate carvings spiraling up to the high ceiling and unmoved by the jewelled mosaics which depict the violent and inexorable rise of the kingdom. Ivory scales gleam and ruby studs glint with remembered fire, their flames given life in the flowering light of the wall sconces. Beyond tapestries of sheer fabric and metallic filigree, slices of the heavens appear dark as onyx, casting only shadows on the ground that sunlight would wash in delicate pastels. The throne room is beautiful, night or day, but Derek was raised to serve in these halls, not to admire them. Derek was raised to serve his liege and his land, as his father had, and as his father’s father had before him. It is only by the discipline of his blood that Derek manages to keep his teeth from grinding.

“Again,” Chamberlain Deaton says, his voice soft and nearly inaudible in the grandeur of the hall. “Slowly and with poise, my liege.”

“Ugh, please call me Stiles while we’re doing this. I feel like my head’s gonna get lopped off at any moment.” Stiles stretches his hands above his head, the pop of his settling vertebrae only slightly less disgusting than his open-mouthed yawn. Stiles smacks his lips together sleepily and rubs his hands through his hair until it looks even more like a rat’s nest. “Can I please go home now? It’s almost dawn. I’ll be back again tomorrow night, as promised.”

“No.” Stiles’ head snaps towards Derek in surprise as Derek steps out from the shadow of the pillars. “Your performance is atrocious. Be serious in your efforts or your corpse might serve as a more convincing double.”

Stiles swallows visibly, his eyes round with fright. “Secretary Hale,” Stiles croaks, his voice breaking annoyingly on Derek’s title, “how long have you been standing–?”

Derek nearly growls, but his good breeding prevents it. Stiles still flinches when Derek speaks again. “Fool, anyone could be watching at anytime. Do you think it’s easy to arrange privacy in the throne room?” Derek should never have indulged the king’s paranoia or agreed to Chamberlain Deaton’s insanity. Derek sneers at Stiles’ reddened face, the blotchy colour only serving to remind Derek of how repugnant he finds this whole affair. Lowborn scum playing at royalty. “Acclimate to the deference you are unworthy of. Never drop the act. You should be capable of a convincing impersonation, unless I’ve mistaken the type of _entertainment_ you provide.”

Stiles’ face is fully red now, made more so by the torchlight, but his expression is one of anger rather than embarrassment. “You–” Stiles bites his tongue. A tendon jumps at his pale throat and Stiles’ hands curl at his sides, further wrinkling his sloppy parody of the king’s robes. Stiles’ lip curls, and Derek needs to remind himself not to backhand the only candidate he could find to play the king’s double. “You want convincing?” Stiles snarls. “I’ll give you fucking _convincing_.”

Right before Derek’s eyes, Stiles’ skin seems to _shift_. The anxiety coiled in his jaw relaxes. The uncertainty in his slouched shoulders melts away. His impatient feet still. His face pales into an even complexion, expressive features closing, pink lips firming.

Stiles’ posture straightens, shoulders pulling back and chin tipping up with what would’ve been insolence moments ago, but is now cool confidence. Stiles’ hands uncurl, revealing long and slender fingers which run milk-pale down the midnight blue of his silk robes. Stiles smoothes the fabric draped gracefully over his shoulders and tightens the golden sash belted around his trim waist. Stiles’ fingers drag through the dark brown of his hair, clearing the soft strands from his face so the amber of his eyes gleams under the haughty arch of his brows.

Stiles seems to flow towards Derek, his steps no longer clumsy or halting, but soft and sure. Stiles holds Derek’s gaze with his own and steps so close that Derek can feel the puff of Stiles’ warm breath on his chin and smell the subdued scent of his skin. Stiles is undaunted by Derek’s greater height and build, standing like the very air belongs to him and projecting displeasure at Derek’s unwarranted presence.

“Kneel, Secretary Hale,” Stiles commands, and Derek is on his knees.

Derek knows this is only the double his liege demanded he find in a fit of paranoia. Derek knows – _knows_ – this is only Stiles, the entertainer Derek stumbled upon in a tavern. Derek _knows_ , but his senses scream at him to obey, to lower his eyes and _submit_ because all of Derek’s knowledge is nothing next to instinct, next to the blood that tells him _this is his_ _king_.

As if pressured by a ring-clad hand, Derek feels his neck bend as his knees have bent. His eyes fall away, following the golden embroidery of the king’s robes down to the ground, the thread dull in comparison to the amber of those burning eyes. Derek feels breathless, his mouth dry, his composure shaken. It is unbecoming. This is not how a Hale reacts to the presence of his liege. A Hale is disciplined in his service, and this... this is not disciplined.

It’s when Derek identifies that faint scent – wood smoke – that he returns to his senses. Kings do not smell of wood smoke.

Derek fights to keep his breath even, his face expressionless when he rises to his feet. Stiles remains poised, his eyes meeting Derek’s without challenge, piercing because they hold the self-assurance of one who knows his own power.

“Is this convincing enough?” Stiles asks, voice low and smooth. “Do you like what you see, Secretary Hale?” There is a glint in his eyes that is decidedly _not_ kingly. Something about Stiles has shifted _just so_ – the angle of his hip; perhaps the jut of his jaw or the column of his neck – and it is– Derek doesn’t know _what_ it is, but it is– it _lights_ something in him. Something vicious and– and _maddening_.

Derek can almost feel the skin of his knuckles splitting, his hands are clamped in such tight fists beneath his sleeves. Savage hands, his uncle used to say, more suited for barbarism and obscenity than court politics. Derek forces himself calm. He’s bitten the inside of his cheek and he can taste copper along the bone of his teeth. The scent of wood smoke is suffocating.

“Better,” Derek says, voice thankfully even, “but you still require practice.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully, spinning slowly on the ball of his foot until his back is turned to Derek. His robes coil with the movement, whispering over his skin and sliding low around the collar to expose the tender nape of his neck. “What do you think?”

“A bit of practice would not go amiss, my liege.” Derek blinks. He’d forgotten Chamberlain Deaton was there.

“What exactly should I practice?” Stiles asks Derek, looking at him from over his shoulder.

Derek struggles to articulate an answer. This is what he wanted – commitment and serious effort in the impersonation – and Derek should say something. Derek should say something, but he can’t pinpoint– can’t quite describe the fault in Stiles’ performance. Derek just knows that the king doesn’t– the king–

“Everything,” Derek growls, eyes narrowing. Stiles smiles. It’s the barest curve of his soft pink lips, subtle, but as mischievous as the impish turn of his nose, and– and that’s the problem. The king is not playful.

“Stop that. The king is a serious man. He does not smile like a– fool.”

“My apologies,” Stiles says, firming the line of his mouth, and he’s not smiling anymore– except he _is._ It’s there even if it’s not explicitly _there_ on Stiles’ face, and Derek wants to – needs to – make Stiles _obey_ ; wants to strip away Stiles’ costumes, hunt down that mocking little grin; wants to lay it as bare as the flesh under Stiles’ impudent jaw, find out if it’s as petal-soft as it–  

“Looks like the sun is rising,” Stiles says, nodding towards the slits of the high windows where the onyx sky has become a marbled pink. “Chamberlain Deaton, I should go before the castle wakes.”

Chamberlain Deaton nods serenely, guiding Stiles to a servant’s exit to change back into peasant garb. Stiles walks after Chamberlain Deaton, his gait bouncy and infantile– utterly without grace. He doesn’t once turn to look back at Derek.

Derek grinds his teeth. It isn’t treason to curse a pretend king.

 


End file.
